


Miracles Don't Always Happen

by RileyC



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017), Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Romantic Comedy, This Could Air On The Hallmark Channel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-02 00:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16776232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: All Bruce wants for Christmas is Clark. He has serious doubts of Santa delivering on that one, however. Funny things can happen around the holidays, though...





	Miracles Don't Always Happen

_~~~_

“Are you expecting company, Bruce?” Leslie Thompkins was gazing outside, tracking something with intent. Elegant in a lacy black, vintage Givenchy gown, silver hair coiffed in a stylish bob, you would never guess she had just restitched a couple of lucky slices the Penguin had gotten in last night.

“Company? No.” Bruce joined her at the window. It wasn’t hard to spot what had caught her attention. That plaid coat would stand out in a blizzard. “That’s just Clark.” He refused to acknowledge the flutter of excitement in his belly at spotting that coat. He’d thought those salmon mousse canapes last night tasted a little off. That was the likely culprit re: belly flutters. Nothing at all to do with watching Clark stroll up to the house in what little daylight remained.

“Just Clark?” With an the slightest of emphasis on that ‘just,’ she managed to convey that she’d heard unspoken volumes, possibly even flutters. She gave him an inquiring look, eyes alight with curiosity. “And he comes bearing gifts.”

Clark was indeed carting a large gift bag up to the door. It better not be more decorations, Bruce thought, with a baleful look aimed at the Christmas tree over in a corner. The one Clark had bullied him into putting up. Bruce may have caved on that one, and the lights strung up outside, but he was putting his foot down, hard, if Clark had any ideas about a light up sleigh-and-reindeer on the roof.

Like a woman on a mission, Leslie sailed straight for the front door, cutting off Alfred, and opened it just as Clark was about to knock. “You must be Clark! Bruce has been telling us all about you. Do come in,” she added and stood back. She held out her hand as Clark cast an uncertain look over at Bruce “I’m Leslie Thompkins, an old friend of the family.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Clark said, showing off his manners. “Clark Kent.” He knocked snow off his boots and stepped inside. If Bruce read his expression right, he had just scanned the place with his x-ray vision, to make sure this wasn’t some kind of trap and Leslie wasn’t a Bond villain holding Bruce and Alfred hostage. A notion that would no doubt tickle her to pieces.

Satisfied all was well, Clark put his bag down by the door and let Leslie take his coat.

Not about to relinquish command of the situation, Leslie bestowed a smile on Clark, and said, “You’ll join us for tea, of course.”

“I… Will?” Clark looked from Bruce to Alfred and back again, and pushed at his glasses.

“I’ll fetch another cup,” Alfred murmured as Leslie drew Clark over to the sofa and patted a spot beside her.

“Now,” she turned to face Clark, “tell me all about yourself, Clark--may I call you Clark?--and how you know Bruce.”

Bruce stared at the floor and wondered just how difficult it would be to install a trapdoor right about there. Maybe a switch on the coffee table to activate it, and one of those firehouse poles to slide down for a quick escape. He gave the matter some serious thought as Alfred poured tea and passed around plates of finger sandwiches, tea cakes, and cookies, and Leslie grilled Clark about galas in Metropolis and buying banks in Smallville.

Just as he found himself longing for an army of exploding, wind-up penguins to appear, he heard Alfred say, “Oh, but Lee, I’m sure you’ve been reading Mr. Kent’s pieces in the _Daily Planet_. His exposé of Gotham’s criminal underbelly? They’re quite good.” He took a sip of tea and regarded Clark. “Hasn’t there been talk of a film? Or a series on Netflix?”

_Thank you, Alfred._ Bruce tipped his head in acknowledgement of the save; Alfred replied with a suave lift of an eyebrow.

The diversion was only temporary, of course, and most likely to fuel Leslie’s imagination even more. Especially if she ever discovered that Clark’s entrée to Gotham’s underworld had come courtesy of Matches Malone. Like the soon-to-be Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist he was, Clark hadn’t named Malone as his primary source, but it wouldn’t be hard for Leslie to connect the dots.

It had been a good plan, a means of resurrecting Clark Kent just plausible enough to work. They had hashed it out around the kitchen table at the farm, working out that Clark had realized being declared dead presented him with a unique opportunity to go deep undercover. The story went that Clark had been in Gotham that night to make contact with an anonymous source--Malone--only to be caught up in the Doomsday destruction. He had come to in a triage center, with minor injuries, no ID, phone, or money. Matches Malone had come to the rescue, however, and told him Clark was in a position that didn’t come along often, a chance to start out all over again. That had planted the seed, and before he knew it, Clark was getting to know the seamy side of Gotham up close and personal.

There had been one, enormous flaw in the whole idea, but Martha Kent had come to the rescue. “If I say I was too overcome with grief to make a positive identification of the body, everyone will get on board and claim they weren’t so sure that __was__ Clark in the coffin, but nobody wanted to say anything to me.”

That the conspiracy worked was a tribute to her _and_ Clark. Everyone just wanted him back, the details didn’t matter.

And if it gave Bruce the opportunity to watch Clark squirm a bit as Leslie complimented and quizzed him, well, chances like that didn’t come along every day, either.

~*~

“Well, we’d best be on our way,” Leslie said as the Jag purred to life. “It was lovely meeting you, Clark.”

“And you, Dr. Thompkins,” Clark returned, taking her hand.

“Handsome _and_ lovely manners,” she murmured, and cast a playful glance at Bruce that clearly said _You could do worse_. “So refreshing.”

Clark didn’t duck his head, scuff his toe on the pavement, and say, “Aw, shucks, ma’am,” but Bruce sensed it was a close thing.

Doing up the belt of a military-style coat that was far too sophisticated to be called a trench coat, Leslie looked back at the house, the Christmas lights twinkling in the lightly falling snow. She touched Bruce’s arm, all teasing gone now. “Oh, I am glad you’ve found your Christmas spirit, Bruce. It’s been too long.”

Secretly, Bruce was inclined to agree. His only reply, however, was a modest shrug. “It’s no big deal.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ll leave you to it, then,” Leslie said as Alfred, a match to her panache in tuxedo and topcoat, took her arm to steer her over an icy patch. “And mind those stitches. I’ll be quite cross if I have to come out and do them again.”

“Stitches?” Clark gave Bruce a sharp look and tipped down his glasses. In the same instant Bruce felt a brief, warm buzz go through him. He was almost positive he’d just been scanned. He was less certain how he felt about that.

“It’s nothing, Clark. Just a scratch.”

“Bit more than that,” Alfred chimed in with a stern look. “Do try and keep him in this evening, Master Clark.”

“And don’t let him get up to anything __too__ strenuous,” Leslie tossed over her shoulder. While Bruce rolled his eyes at that, he heard her murmur to Alfred, “Why do I have this urge to hum songs from _Beauty and the Beast_?”

“Behave, you,” Alfred replied, holding the car door for her.

The Jag glided down the drive, taillights soon lost in the snow, and Bruce breathed out a deep sigh. “That was…”

“Fun?”

“Not exactly the word I was going for.”

Clark laughed, pocketed his glasses, and tipped his head up to the snow. “She’s just concerned for you. They both are.”

“Yeah.” Bruce hunched his shoulders against the cold. “I don’t know where they get their crazy ideas.”

“Yeah.” Clark drew out the single syllable, investing it with hidden, subtle meanings that Bruce lacked the key to decipher. “That is a tough one to work out, all right.”

Except that Clark didn’t do subtle, hidden meanings. Did he? Bruce pondered that as they strolled along the lake. If there was a secret code, might the means of solving it be near at hand? In the tilt of Clark’s head as he glanced over at Bruce, for instance. Or the flicker of a smile that touched his lips just before he looked away. But what if his interpretation of these clues was influenced by wistful pangs and yearnings? That was the question. That was one of so many questions.

Better to stay on firmer ground, Bruce decided, and asked, “So what brings you out to Gotham today?”

“The ferry?”

Bruce just stared at him.

Plaid-covered should lifted in a shrug. “Same thing that’s always bringing you over to Metropolis.”

Well, that couldn’t be true. Whatever ulterior motive might lurk behind his frequent trips to Metropolis (and he wasn’t conceding there __were__ ulterior motives), they always flew under the flag of official business. That he happened to run into Clark in the course of every meeting or red carpet event was pure coincidence. If they both happened to be in Metropolis or Gotham, why shouldn’t they wind up in some greasy spoon diner or back at Clark’s place, to discuss League business? Why shouldn’t Clark be the last one to clear out of the Cave after a mission debriefing, lingering long into the night as Alfred kept the coffee coming and they somehow wandered far afield from how Barry could have handled Captain Cold better, to some book Clark had read that he thought Bruce would like. And so what if it began to feel so easy and comfortable. Like this was how it should be. How it could have been all along, if they hadn’t started off in the worst way possible.

If there was anything else stirring under all that, it was nobody’s business but his own.

He didn’t say any of that, of course. There would never be a right time to say any of that.

Remaining on that solid ground, he said, “Got a hot interview lined up with that firefighter who rescued the kittens from warehouse the other day?” He narrowed his eyes, as if thinking something over. “Maybe you’re worried she could give you some competition in that market?”

It was Clark’s turn to stare back at him. Bruce wasn’t too worried. If Clark wanted to incinerate him, he’d have done it a long time ago.

All right, if it wasn’t that, then… Bruce gave him another narrow-eyed look, loaded with exasperation this time. “You’re not still on about the Martian, are you?” Somewhere in the course of his travels, Clark said he had stumbled on some stories of a so-called Man from Mars, possessing a multitude of powers that ranged from telepathy to shapeshifting. Probably just urban legends, he’d admitted late one night when they had ditched a red carpet event, grabbed some takeout, and gone back to Clark’s place. He’d had this starry-eyed look, though, as he’d repeated the tall tales that suggested to Bruce he put a lot more stock in them than he was admitting. And if Clark’s enthusiasm about the alleged Martian also pinged a sliver of jealousy, well, Bruce wasn’t going to admit to that, either.

“I’m going to be on about the Martian until I have proof he exists,” Clark returned. Subliminally, Bruce heard: _So put that in your pipe and smoke it._

The flare of annoyance vanished as quickly as it had come. Those broad shoulders relaxed, and the blue eyes warmed with a sparkle of good-natured humor, as though he had caught a glimpse of something that delighted him.

Since he was fairly sure they didn’t have unicorns or reindeer wandering the grounds, Bruce had no idea what that about, and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. It sure as hell wasn’t him; it couldn’t be him that put that look on Clark’s eyes.

Feeling the cold bite harder, he walked on, steps directed back to the house. Clark fell into step beside him, still offering nothing regarding the matter of what brought him to Gotham this evening. Maybe it was just to drop off that bag of gifts. That was odd enough. Why should Martha Kent want to remember him and Alfred at Christmas? Why would Clark? And just never mind that he kept eyeing a selection of vintage typewriters on display in a shop window near Wayne Tower, thinking something like that might be just the thing for Clark. The gaudy red one in particular, a Smith Corona from 1920, had really caught his eye.

Deep in thought, weaving an image of Clark tapping away at that typewriter to write his latest big story, or maybe a science fiction novel about shapeshifting Martians, Bruce almost didn’t hear what Clark said then. “What?”

“I said that you know exactly why I’m here, Bruce.”

He did? News to him. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“Look--” To his dying day, Bruce would swear a devastating _bon mot_ danced on his tongue right at that moment. His wit would never be immortalized alongside the likes of Oscar Wilde and Noel Coward, however, because as he turned to deliver it, his foot slipped on an icy patch of snow and before he even registered it, he was hurtling straight for a rendezvous with hypothermia as he plunged into the dark, frigid depths of the lake.

He never hit the water.

A rush of air, then impossibly powerful arms caught him a split second before he would have plummeted into the sub-zero water. In less than a wink of an eye he was hanging on for dear life as Clark soared out over the lake with him held tight in his arms. Heart pounding, gasping for air, exhilaration coursed through him, chased by an unexpected burst of arousal. He wasn’t much of one for prayer, but he offered up one then, that Clark wouldn’t notice.

Aware that his face was smooshed into Clark’s neck, and intoxicated by the sensory overload of it all, Bruce angled his head so he could try and catch a breath. It didn’t help a lot. Proximity like this only made him aware of how inadequate that hologram had been. The hologram hadn’t prepared him for the silky texture of Clark’s hair, the curls catching at his fingers as he held on tight. Nor had the hologram radiated warmth. Warmth that infiltrated every inch of his body, right down to his toes. Better than any heating pad or electric blanket, he thought, fighting the urge to burrow even closer. The hologram hadn’t prepared him for anything. Nothing ever could.

He turned his head some more, seeking distraction in the view. Up here, he could glimpse Gotham, all tricked out for the holidays and twinkling in the snow. That looming shadow over there, swathed in the falling snow, must be the manor. Only the lake house, glittering and bright, a hundred feet below them, was clearly visible.

“Ready?” Clark rumbled against his ear, making him shiver.

“Ready?” Bruce turned his face back to Clark. “Now you’re asking?”

And, oh dear lord, nothing in this world could prepare him for the devastation of Clark’s smile this up close and personal. “Jesus…” he murmured.

The smile increased in wattage. “Nope, just me,” Clark said as they began to drift down through the now.

_Just him…_ As if that diminished anything. As if Bruce wouldn’t give anything to worship at that church.

Fingers already tangled in raven silk, his gaze fixed on Clark’s mouth, on succulent lips that he could almost taste. All he had to was inch closer, turn his head a bit, tug on those curls and bring Clark’s mouth to him, and--

_thump_

__

Too late. Their feet were back on the ground, and Clark’s hands were already falling away from his waist, and Bruce knew he’d missed his chance. If there had even been a chance.

Bruce swallowed his disappointment and started to turn away. He hadn’t bargained on being left all wobbly-kneed by the experience, however, and shot out an arm to brace himself before he fell. Naturally the only thing near enough to shore him up was Clark’s chest. It was that or go splat on his face, and he’d like to preserve some scrap of dignity.

Thus, Bruce found himself all but plastered to that chest for a moment. That chest that repelled bullets like they were Nerf balls. That chest that wasn’t really like steel at all. More like… Marble? If marble had heat, and was pliable. If marble breathed and shuddered under his touch.

Wait. Shuddered?

No; no, Bruce shook his head and dismissed the fleeting impression. Far too much wishful thinking running wild lately.

“Sorry.” He pushed back, tried to steady himself, tried to confine himself to grasping the broad shoulders this time.. “That was…” He faltered for words, for his equilibrium.

Clark steadied him again. “Yeah. I’m told it takes some getting used to.”

“I’ll bet.” Not that he’d be getting used to if, of course. Strictly in case of emergency. Or until he perfected his jet pack design.

“How are your stitches?”

Bruce cocked his head. “You’re asking?”

Clark shrugged. “You did skid a bit before I caught you.”

“Hhn.” Bruce guessed that was true. He touched his side, fairly certain all was well. “They’re fine.”

“Right here?” Clark nudged Bruce’s hand aside with his own, resting his fingers over the area of the wound. “Does it hurt?”

“Not a lot.”

Clark cocked his head, studying him as if parsing those three words for subtle shades and meanings. “On a scale of one to ten?”

Bruce shrugged, feeling more surefooted now. “Four?”

“I’d like it better if there wasn’t a question mark at the end.”

Bruce had no reply to that. Degrees of pain were irrelevant. Could he function, or could he not? That was what mattered. Judged on that scale, he was good to go. He suspected Clark wouldn’t go along with that idea anymore than Alfred did.

“I suppose you have to get back to Metropolis?” Bruce posed this question with what he liked to imagine was an air of cool and polished diffidence, as if the answer couldn’t possibly matter.

“Not really, no.”

“Smallville?”

“Nope.”

Hhn.

“Actually,” Clark said, “I was wondering why you hadn’t been over to Metropolis lately. I’ve missed having you around.” Before Bruce could react to that bomb, Clark reached over to pluck a twig from his hair, and brush other bits of debris off his coat. With his dark brows drawn together in concentration, anyone would think the only big deal here was smoothing out the velvet collar of Bruce’s coat. Clark looked up at him, a mysterious smile on his lips, as if confronted with something he didn’t quite understand but found delightful all the same. “Guess I got used to you being sacked out on the couch.”

Funny: his feet were firmly planted on the ground, but the world was still turning cartwheels. “Would’ve thought you’d be glad to see the last of me.” These words were muttered to the ground as he brushed a leaf from the back of his neck.

“Yeah, you’d think so,” Clark said, enough warmth in his smile to melt the snow. Brows drawn together again, as he gave Bruce a solemn look, he asked, “It wasn’t the gossip, was it?”

“The gossip?” Bruce echoed, as though he didn’t have a clue. As if there hadn’t been innuendo-laden blind items about what _Daily Planet_ reporter was receiving exclusives from what Gotham City industrialist. As if there hadn’t been one too many close calls with the paparazzi.

“Rumors anyway, whispers.” Clark brushed his fingers through the hair at Bruce’s temple, as if he’d found another piece of debris caught there.

Bruce swallowed, tried to steady his breath. “Tawdry ones? Sordid?” he said, in as smarmy a manner as he could manage. He detected mission failure in the way Clark shook his head but didn’t quite roll his eyes.

“It’s just,” Clark, being a wise man, ignored him and went on, “I wouldn’t think you’d care about something like that.”

“I wouldn’t?”

“Not unless it mattered.” Clark tugged on Bruce’s collar, eyes locked on his with intent. “Does it matter, Bruce?”

He had let the gossip get under his skin. He’d let it keep him away. He’d been concerned the talk might get back to Clark, and then what? As long as Clark didn’t know Bruce harbored ulterior motives in his heart, nothing had to change. Those evenings spent eating takeout and talking, or watching movies like _The Road to Eldorado_ and _The Princess Bride_ , because Clark was appalled at the gaps in Bruce’s pop culture education and took it upon himself to correct things--those evenings could go on indefinitely. Bruce could keep storing up little tidbits to fuel his wishful thinking, and Clark need never be the wiser of the nature of some of those thoughts and dreams.

When had Clark figured things out? And why wasn’t the sky falling?

“I thought you might mind. You don’t?” Bruce asked, surprise in his voice as he searched Clark’s eyes.

Clark dipped his head to the side, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “Well, if they’re going to talk anyway, why not give them a real reason to?” A worried look crept into his expression then, and he waved a hand back and forth across Bruce’s face. “Bruce? Are you okay?”

“Okay?” He shook his head, remembered to breathe. “Clark, I--” This hadn’t been part of the plan. Not that there had ever really been a plan, except to hoard his feelings for twenty or thirty years and then die. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

Clark observed him with a kind of droll affection. “No? So how was it meant to go?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

No, Bruce gave him a cautious look, maybe he wouldn’t. Still… He drew in another breath, let it out slowly, and trained his gaze on a pine tree across the way. There was no way he could actually say any of this if he was looking right at Clark. “We’d be at the farm, and there would be a shooting star, and you’d ask me what I wished for, and I’d say I wished for you, and…” God, that sounded ridiculous. He’d known it would, if he ever put it into words.

Clark reached over to grasp his hands, warming them with his own. “And…?” he prompted. “What happens next?”

Bruce still wouldn’t look at him. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Damn it, Clark,” he did look up then, “you should be courted, you should be wooed.”

“Soooo… That isn’t what you’ve been doing? Courting and wooing me?”

Bruce glowered at him. “When I court and woo you, believe me, you will damn well know it.”

Laughter bubbled up in Clark’s face and he had that look again, like he was seeing something that captivated him. “You know you’re a nut, right?”

“Yeah, well,” Bruce spoke on a huff, “takes one to know one.” Naturally that only made Clark’s smile turn even brighter. He let out a deep sigh, tried to disentangle in his hands. “Clark, you don’t have to--”

Clark let go of one hand, but turned the other one palm up, his thumb caressing the vulnerable inside of Bruce’s wrist. For all the touch was feather light, Bruce felt it curl through him right down to his toes. “All those nights I lay awake, knowing you were right there asleep on the couch, and wishing I had the courage to,” his shoulders lifted in a hapless shrug that matched his eyes, “to just do this,” he murmured, lifting his hand to ruffle his fingers through Bruce’s hair.

Bruce held himself absolutely still, transfixed--knocked for a loop like he’d never let himself hope. He wanted to kiss Clark’s rueful smile. He was afraid to do anything, say anything, and risk bursting this moment like a soap bubble, for fear it might never be captured again.

“I imagined how your eyes would snap open,”Clark was going on, fingers drifting down to linger along Bruce’s cheekbone. “How you’d be wide awake in an instant, and you’d look at me and go all growly, and want to know what took me so long. And then we’d both be on the couch, all tangled up in each other, and…” He bit his lip, shook his head, and glanced away out over the lake. “That’s about as far as it went.”

Bruce swallowed, nodded. “Good start anyway.” Now, if only he was something like the world’s greatest detective he might have spotted some clues and figured out that Clark was in the same boat with him all along.

As soon as the cranky thought crossed his mind, he shooed it away. Missed chances didn’t matter, not if you got in right in the end.

“So,” Clark ducked his head, caught somewhere between bold and bashful, “you think we should do anything about this?”

“I think,” Bruce reached over and caught him by the hand, and tugged, “we should definitely spend some time exploring the potential.”

“Yeah?” Clark let Bruce tug him closer. “Where should be start?”

“Well, if we were standing under some mistletoe--”

“I could pick some up and be right back.”

For an instant, Bruce wavered on the verge of telling him to go ahead. Images flashed through his mind, though; an infinity of things that could happen, that could go wrong, that could irrevocably rip this precious moment from their hands. “No.” He cast off the visions of doom, banished all the ghosts and shadows, and braced a hand against Clark’s chest again. He could do that now, he could do so much that had looked impossible just a day ago. “No, we can skip the mistletoe,” he said, and slid his hand up to curve around Clark’s neck. “Come here.”

Clark obeyed, but then pulled back. “Wait a minute.”

“Okay.” Now what? He was pretty sure they were good on the consent front. _Please don’t let there be a crisis somewhere. Not right now, not right this minute._ “Clark? What is it?”

“It’s just, I’ve never kissed someone taller than me before.”

“Oh, well by all means, let’s find an apple crate for you to stand on. Or maybe you’d like--” A finger laid against his lips stopped him mid-rant. Would he chip a tooth if he bit it?

“I just meant,” Clark said, radiating infinite patience, “that we might have to try a few times before we get it right.”

“Practice, huh? Like this?” He slid both hands around Clark’s neck, thumbs stroking along a jawline that was surely the eighth wonder of the world.

Clark drew in a sharp breath, eyes grown darker. “Something like.”

“Hhn. Well, I guess a Kansas farmboy would need some lessons from a leading exper--Umph…”

Apparently Kansas farmboys knew quite a lot about kissing.

Bruce had had this idea once that if he could simply get Clark into his bed, have a one-night stand for the ages, that he would get this obsession out of his system. They could shake hands afterward and walk away, and that would be an end to it.

He’d been an idiot.

“You taste like Christmas,” he said as the kiss broke up into a multitude of smaller ones, scattered over each other’s faces. “Like Christmas, and shooting stars, and--”

Clark stole the rest of it in another kiss.

It didn’t matter. There would be plenty of time to make a fool of himself. Bruce let that sink in as he pressed his forehead to Clark’s. He felt Clark sigh, felt the soft breath against his skin as Clark nuzzled into him.

He’d never understand it. He’d always wonder how this could be true, how it felt like Clark was holding onto everything he wanted for Christmas too.

Maybe some mysteries weren’t meant to be solved. Maybe some mysteries were just meant to be, decided the world’s greatest detective as he went in for another kiss.

~*~

And, after all, they did make use of some mistletoe later that night.

===

 _I know that miracles don't always happen_  
_But they do every once in awhile_  
_And though I'm not naive_  
_I still want to believe_  
_In the promise that lights your smile_

 _And when I wake up Christmas morning_  
_I don't know what I'm gonna find_  
_But if wishes come true_  
_Then my gift would be you_  
_'Cause in my kind of Christmas you're mine_

_\-- My Kind of Christmas, Spencer Day_

**Author's Note:**

> I know, it's been awhile. 
> 
> This past year was filled with good intentions, fic wise, but for one reason or another things never quite came together. One thing I learned, for good, was that fic challenges and me are a terrible match. So there will be no more of that. Sucks I miss out a possibility of art as a result, but getting an actual fic done is way more important. (That said, if any artist out there ever feels inspired by something I've written, feel free to run with that. I would love to see the result.)
> 
> My hope is that having blundered my way back (and believe me, much, much blundering was involved) I will find my groove, my mojo once again, and pick up where so, soooooo many WIPs have left off. 
> 
> Keep your fingers crossed.


End file.
